Quoth the Kaoru: it’s almost Halloween, which is basically Goth Christmas. Well, in that case, we’d better start dishing out the holiday goodies. First up, a heaping, tentacular helping of The Dunwich Horror:

Ganked from the excellent Nightchillers site, thanks.

If you’ve never seen this campy Corman-produced adaptation of Lovecraft’s famous tale, you might want to Netflix it in time for your pumpkin-carving party.* Produced and shot in 1969 in the immediate wake of Manson Family shenanigans, it’s often pooh-poohed by Lovecraft purists for being too cornball. But in my opinion, Dunwich Horror is actually one of the better adaptations of old Howard P’s oeuvre** with its sumptuous matte paintings, capable-if-hokey performances from the cast, a beautiful score by Les Baxter, and a couple of genuinely creepy moments. Lovecraft stories lend themselves really well to the pyschedelic era.

Yes, he really did just say “horrendipity.”

Starring Dean “Uh Oh, Sam” Stockwell in his most brooding role short of Yueh in Dune, a rather weary-faced-but-supposedly-virginal Sandra Dee, and the even wearier-faced Ed Begley (his final role, R.I.P.), Dunwich Horror is worth renting for the gorgeous animated title sequence alone. Other highlights: the sight of young, yog-sothothelytizing Stockwell’s torso covered in pseudo-runic sharpie scribbles, Sam Jaffe’s “GET OFF MY LAWN” geezerdom, and Gidget clenching her butt in the throes of orgasm on the altar at Devil’s Hopyard.

Other Coilhouse posts of possible interest:

• Tentacle Love: Why?
• The Abominable Dr. Phibes
• Death Bed: The Bed That Eats
• Kenneth Anger: Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome

*Or if you’re really cheap, you can watch the whole thing on YouTube.
**Not that that’s saying much, really. Other than ReAnimator, what’ve we got that’s not just crotch-punchingly horrid? Hmmm, let’s see… actually, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at any of these: The Resurrected, Die Monster Die, The Unnameable, that Night Gallery episode Pickman’s Model, and the amazing Call of Cthulhu indie movie that came out recently. Can you guys think of any others? A great suggestion from commenter Jack: Carpenter’s In the Mouth of Madness.

Even when he’s drawing space vehicles, the myriad of minutiae executed with sharp precision hints at Keith Thompson’s classical influences. I’ve spent hours browsing Keith’s incredible portfolio and getting lost in the stories written for most of the art on display. The worlds behind each piece feel thoroughly conceived – it’s clear the author mulled over each detail of the fable along with the art. Gorgeous detailing decorates mutants, deities and demons, some of it recognizable, like this machine-beluga or the violin necks in the legs of the lovely musician below.

When a talented skald of the Swedish courts, renowned across Scandinavia for his unparalleled musical prowess, revealed himself as a disguised woman, she was swiftly executed, and the embarrassing events were stricken from polite conversation. Her sudden return to court functions shook even the staunchest war veterans, but not enough to stay a second wary, though swift, summary execution. Upon further returns, each revealing the scald to be strangely repaired in a manner befitting tailor more than physician, the court began to almost embrace the eerie presence. This cycle of returns and executions leading to a more and more transfigured court poet became something of an exalted tradition.

Thompson’s work is largely concept art along with two sections of illustration work with some beautifully fleshed out pieces you must see to believe. I’m not posting those here simply because of how great they look full-size.  Click. Click, also. Here the old school is especially visible, with the pieces reminiscent of Arthur Rackham and Edmund DuLac –  two of my childhood’s favorite illustrators. Thompson uses traditional techniques he converts to digital in the process, which is described and taught in an instructional DVD.

Keith’s galleries of Vehicles, Creatures and Undead showcase fantastic creatures, some of which take the term “Bio-mechanical” in a new direction. Perfect example: the Luxury Nautiloid below. From Keith’s attached text, some key features:

Upper observation deck used by vacationers with eyes strong enough to look up at the light shining down from the water’s surface. Huge windows offer a commanding view of the seascape from the comfort of interior dining areas and lounges.The ship can move fore or aft and when necessary these tentacles retract and the surrounding plates close up. These extended, flared muscular hydrostats are often used to pull surface craft down into the water for the amusement of the more spiteful tourists.

Beyond the jump, more art and stories from Keith Thompson. Thanks, Alice!

There are two kinds of people in this world. People who truly appreciate the subtle, sophisticated humor of Benny Hill, and people who should just crawl back into bed right now and cry themselves to sleep because they’re obviously hopeless, sub-human degenerates.

Er, wait. Perhaps I’ve got it backwards…

Well, anyhoo. If you’re still reading, good morning! Show me your knickers! Time for a painstakingly curated, unflaggingly tasteful assortment of undercranked “Yakety Sax” mashups, starting with this inspired pairing of Slim Shady and Boots Randolph with a whole lotta Whovians.

Now, click beyond the jump, or else I’ll pinch your butt!

[No one visits Coilhouse to read some blowhard’s soapbox rant, so I’ll keep it as brief as possible. The following missive is addressed specifically to our young, able-bodied, opinionated American friends of voting age who still aren’t 100% sure they’ll make it to the polls on November 4th. If that description doesn’t directly apply to you, please don’t waste your time reading any further. You might want to watch this charming video of a frolicsome chihuahua instead. Thanks!]

An Open Letter to the Basilica of Latter Day Apathetics (American Branch)

We’re in deep doo doo, loves. Up to our necks like the polar bears and the Dow. Every time one of you says “why bother voting when the system is so corrupt” or “all of the candidates are disingenuous scumbags, anyway” or “the whole thing’s rigged” or “what difference does it make”, we all sink a little deeper into the muck. Not okay. While I may share your doubts and your lack of trust, your personal defeatism mustn’t drag us any further down than we’ve already gone.

I do know a tiny handful of conscientious, some might say radical objectors who refuse to take part in U.S. elections because they want to see the system fail. While I don’t share that desire, I can at least respect their strong convictions. But let’s face it. Anarchic leanings are not generally the reason why folks in our demographic don’t cast a ballot. Far more commonly, people (especially young, moderate-to-liberal-leaning people) fail to vote because they can’t be bothered. The true obstacle preventing them from registering, reading up on the propositions, researching the various platforms and making the Herculian effort of slinging their asses over to the polls is plain old, limp-wristed lethargy.

Perhaps it’s naive, but I remain convinced that the inertia anchoring millions of otherwise rational and compassionate Americans to their armchairs on election day is one of the biggest reasons why our “democracy” needs air-quotes in the first place. Please, if you haven’t yet registered to vote, put aside your premature world-weariness for five minutes and GET ‘ER DONE. There’s still time, but it’s running out. In many states, the deadline is October 4th. That’s tomorrow.

I’m far from confident or enthusiastic about the way our country runs its elections, and this soapbox is an awkward perch for me. But I know one thing for certain, my young, able-bodied, non-voting American friend, and I really hope you will believe me:

Cynicism will not protect you from disappointment. It will not shield your loved ones from harm or neglect. It will never heal your community, fix the ailing economy, or return any semblance of dignity to this country.

Your indifference is not a safety blanket; it is a shroud.

Your vote is your voice. Say something.

The separation between advertising & editorial was likened by Henry Luce to the division between church and state; a vital, necessary wall that keeps a magazine honest and pure. We’ve had to turn down several advertisers so far because they pressured us to blog or run print features about them as part of the deal, and will continue to do that as time goes by.

That said, I’d like to dedicate a special blog post (though none of them asked for it) to our four main Issue 01 sponsors: people who decided to place an ad in the first two issues of a magazine that wasn’t yet even published, with a relatively small print run and no proven track record of print success. For a business to give their ad dollars to a such a new publisher, especially in 2008’s economy, was asking a lot. But these guys took the leap, and it’s because of them – as well as all of you, who ordered Issue 01- that we’re able to make Issue 02.

After the jump, my take on and personal thanks to Angelspit, Plastik Wrap, Lip Service and Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab – the fantastic four advertisers who put their faith in Coilhouse from the start.

Come on and go surfin’ safari with Mandela… that’s so narb, dude! Print campaign (click here for enlarged ad) for Denmark’s largest newspaper, Jyllands-Posten— now internationally famous of course thanks to publishing a cartoon of the Prophet Muhammad with a bomb in his turban. Headline: “Life is easier, if you don’t speak up. Debate.” Ain’t that the truth. Nice baggies, brodad! Chillaxin’ Nelson would be the Kahuna of South Africa, and Naomi would soo totally be his Gidget. And fighting to achieve liquid solidarity would have been wicked more peaceful than fighting apartheid ever was; everyone’s equal in the eyes of Neptune, Nellie. But, uh, Uncle Grey (JP’s ad agency)? That retouching job is gnarmin. (Thanks to Riptionary™ for help with the surf lingo).

Here’s a second execution in this goofy-ass campaign featuring a drunken barbecue chef Gandhi (click here to enlarge). Hey Mahatma, put another piece of cow on the fire for me! Fucker is bogarting the India Pale Ale. With these two ads, the Danish paper has now pissed off a couple billion more people. Who’s left? Richard Gere! Here’s a downhilling Dalai Lama just for you. Like the ads? Hate the ads? Debate.

Photographer Chad Michael Ward is known for his visceral photos of haunted hospitals, evil girls with eyepatches and scary priests. Yet somehow, whenever he photographs Mother of London clothing, a completely different side of Chad emerges. All his Mother of London images are delicate and nostalgic, reminiscent in a way of of Paulo Roversi. Ward’s ethereal fashion sensibilities emerged strongly in his first Mother of London collaboration, a portrait of Chinagirl Lily, and appear again in this recent set with the stunning Bad Charlotte.

And yeah, the legendary neck corset in the picture above has made its rounds. I, for one, am never tired of seeing it! That piece manages to look like a completely different garment through every photographer’s lens. Here was my take on it, and here is Allan Amato’s. But this new shoot is not just about the older clothing; there is also a brand-new dress – revealed for the first time on Coilhouse! Behold – and beware of boobies after the jump.

Look about you and you’ll see there’s always something funny happening. – Jacques Tati

Imagine a Paris of the future, as envisioned by someone in the 60s. The city landscape is a series of towering glass and concrete constructions, filled with uninviting black, vinyl modernist furniture and efficient businessmen wearing indistinguishable dark suits. The only glimpse of the remaining romantic image of Paris is a ghostly reflection of the Eiffel Tower in the polished glass door of a high-rise building. Offices are operated by incomprehensible switchboard systems that would have made HAL bewildered; trade shows supply visitors with identical looking furnishings and pointless implements of efficiency, like doors that can be slammed without making a sound, or trash cans shaped like Grecian columns; and every apartment, airport, building lobby and street corner looks exactly the same.

Sounds devastating, I know.

Somehow, director Jacques Tati managed to fill this drab, colorless world with an assortment of characters and plot turns, creating one the most lighthearted and whimsical spectacles I’ve seen in a long while.

In 1967, Tati wrapped up three years of filming (including 9 months of editing) of Play Time, his third film featuring an endearingly bumbling character named Monsieur Hulot, played by the director himself. The movie was a grand undertaking shot entirely in 70mm, with elaborately constructed sets and a stereophonic soundtrack that was quite advanced for the time. It was also a tremendous financial flop that sent Tati into bankruptcy.

The best way to go into the film is without expectations, only to come out smiling. The title is appropriate – the movie is a farce, but such a sweet and kind-hearted one, playful yet extremely stylized. Any plot description, long or short, won’t convey the effects of the meticulous character choreography, the clever visual humor, or the deliciously crisp audio track. However, Play Time’s basic synopsis is such: through a series of coincidental interactions, two bewildered characters (Hulot, with his too-short pants and smoking pipe, and a young American woman traveling with a guided tour group) barely cross paths, while trying to navigate the confusing maze of downtown Paris. The two finally meet at a new restaurant – so new, in fact, that the construction workers are still building parts while the hosts welcome their first diners to the grand opening. Everything that could go wrong, does, and the result is a chaotic, tremendous, swinging party that would have made Peter Sellers well up with pride.

Imagine if, one crisp autumnal morning, young Amelie imbibed fifteen espressos and ran off with Edward Scissorhands to the magical realm of Gothenburg for an impetuous holiday of snowflake-on-tongue-catching, pirouettes and miniature pony-fondling. Who better to provide the soundtrack than this trio of whey-faced moppets known as Detektivbyrån?

The lads perform their Orff-Schulwerkian ditty, “Generation Celebration”.

Released earlier this month, their new album Wermland has already risen to the top of the charts in Sweden, and it’s a delightful, chiming romp. I just want to put ’em all in my pocket.

More floppy-haired glockenspielunking under the cut.

How intricate a mechanism the body, how elegant the curvature of a clavicle! It’s no wonder so many artists find themselves inspired by the wondrous hidden framework of living creatures. Collected below, some curious work by three jewelers, adventurous artisans who believe in extending the life of anatomical construction well beyond the years of its original owners.

Fist up, Julia Deville. Miss Deville’s biography hints at an interesting character I’d love to have over for tea. She is a trained cobbler, silversmith and taxidermist enthralled with nature and its inner workings. Fusing these areas of expertise she created her line – Disce Mori. Inspired by Victorian mourning artifacts and jewelry, Julia’s beautiful website‘s dark clockwork theme is as entrancing as her pieces. Jet is paired with silver cast from animal bones among a selection of cuff links, buttonhole adornments and fob chains alongside necklaces and bracelets. Also here are less orthodox items – a brooch featuring a preserved mouse, for instance. Bold, yet far from costume fare, Disce Mori pieces are as timeless as they are macabre. The “Taxidermy” section is small, but shows a sense of humor with its “Kitten Rug” [exactly what it sounds like]. Viewing her works as reminders to enjoy the present, Julia makes a point to mention that the animals she uses have all died of natural causes.

Follow beyond the jump for two more purveyors of life-affirming adornments.